


The Three Wise Men

by luthorienne



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:17:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2776091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luthorienne/pseuds/luthorienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do professional assassins do on Christmas Eve?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Three Wise Men

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and Clint Barton, freshly returned from a wearying but uneventful operation in Sao Paulo, was savouring the opportunity to be warm, quiet and relaxed, all at the same time. He hadn’t been expected back so early, but the intelligence had come in more easily than they’d planned, and he had been able to catch a ride on a military transport, so he’d made it home in time for Christmas, after all. 

Not that it mattered, really. Tasha was on a different assignment in Pakistan and wouldn’t be back until after the New Year. Phil had gone to Florida to be with his parents. Thor and Jane were in Iceland for the foreseeable future. Not having expected him, Steve, Bruce, Tony and Pepper had gone to a party. Jasper was holding the fort at headquarters, and Jimmy Woo was riding herd on Coulson’s new team in California. Which left Clint at ten o’clock on Christmas Eve, folded into his favourite armchair, wrapped in jeans and a soft old sweater, warm as toast as enormous snowflakes drifted down over Manhattan. Princess, who had been ecstatic to see him, laid her head down on Clint’s bare feet as he adjusted his glasses, opening his book. There was an ounce of ten-year-old Edradour scotch at his hand, two ice cubes making music in the glass as he sipped. He was well content.

He’d barely finished the thought, of course, when JARVIS apologetically announced, “Agent Barton, Agent Griffiths is here to see you.”

Princess made a grumbly noise and lifted her head to look reproachfully at Clint, who shrugged. “Hey, don’t look at me, baby, I didn’t invite anybody.” He looked regretfully at his glass and gulped the scotch. If Owain was coming up, he’d better drink it while he could. “Send him up, JARVIS,” he said, sighing. Still, if he had to relinquish his quiet evening at home, Owain’s company was likely to be an entertaining alternative.

Owain Griffiths, known in the trade as The Gryphon, had settled into SHIELD better than anyone expected. His reputation had earned him instant respect, and it hadn’t hurt that the Welshman lived up to his press. He and Fury had had some epic battles and been on at least one epic bender, and despite Clint’s warnings, he’d roundly fleeced Jasper and Maria and an unknown number of baby agents at darts. Trainee agents fought to get into his classes the way they fought to train with Tasha and with Clint himself. Owain, a widower and estranged from his only daughter, had blossomed under the attention. Still nursing his hangover, Fury had even acknowledged to Clint that he’d done well to bring the aging assassin into the fold.

Owain emerged from the elevator with his long hair and full beard covered with snowflakes and enveloped Clint in a smothering hug. 

“Ah, I’m glad you’re in, lad. Is that a drink I smell?” he added, bending to stroke Princess’ ears. She liked Owain, who smelled of tweed and meadows even in the midst of Manhattan, and offered her paw to shake. “Oh, such a lovely girl she is,” he said, shaking the proferred paw respectfully. “There’s no dog better than a Springer spaniel, is there?” he asked Clint, following him into the living room and taking his seat in the other armchair. “No, thanks, I’ll not be needing any ice,” he said, extending his hand for the glass of scotch. “There’s ice enough in the street.”

“You want something hot?” Clint asked, pouring another ounce for himself. Owain shook his head, sipping his drink. 

“No, thanks, lad, this will warm the old man.”

“I thought you were going to be in Marseilles until the day after tomorrow,” Clint commented. Owain shrugged. 

“We had a little complication,” he said. Clint gave him a level look. 

“Is this going to be one of those things that makes Nick slam doors?”

“Oh, he’s too tense, your Nick fellow,” Owain said dismissively. “No, the mission’s done, the package is delivered, and the nasty drug-dealer’s dead.”

“So what’s the complication?”

“This.” Griffiths reached into a deep pocket of his overcoat and handed Clint a thick bundle of banknotes held in a blue elastic band. 

“Jesus, Owain, what the hell is this?” Clint demanded, flipping through the bundle. 

“Forty thousand Euros, that is,” the Gryphon said gloomily. “Pay attention, lad, my glass is empty.”

Exasperated, Clint handed him the bottle. Griffiths poured another drink, examining the label closely. 

“Ah, Edradour,” he said nostalgically. “I think I shot a fellow in Pitlochry once, though not near the distillery.”

“That was me you shot in Pitlochry,” Clint replied acerbically. “Where the hell did this come from?”

“It was in Merveille’s pocket,” Owain replied. “I wasn’t about to leave it for the gendarmes to steal.”

“Didn’t you fly back commercial? How did you get it through Customs?” Clint demanded. Griffiths smiled, laying a finger by the side of his nose. 

“Ah, lad, the trick is to get a lady Customs officer,” he began. Clint held up a hand. He himself had carried lethal weapons, alien artifacts and once a live lionfish on and off planes undetected; a bundle of cash big enough to choke a wharf-rat would be no challenge, especially to the Gryphon.

“I don’t want to know,” he said, handing the bundle back. “You know you’re supposed to turn this in.”

“Well, and then what would happen?” Owain said, stuffing it back into his coat pocket. “Nick would spend it foolishly on guns and computers and fuel for that ridiculous airplane they call the Bus.” He shook his head. “It’s Christmas, lad. I thought you and I could find a better place for it.” He patted Princess’ head fondly. “You’ll need some socks, young Clinton; I’m not taking you to Mass in your bare feet.”

 

The main doors to Holy Cross Church were brightly-lit, its red brick façade warm and welcoming, the spotlights a beacon on West 42nd Street. They had strolled in companionable silence most of the way, Clint remembering a midnight Mass he’d attended in Baraboo once with Madame Zoltar, the fortune-teller from Carson’s Circus; a dozen devout old ladies and a scattering of young families hadn’t come close to filling the pews on that occasion. He’d been about ten, then, staring curiously at the mothers and fathers and the children dressed in velvet dresses and little miniature suits and vests, their hair slicked down or caught up with ribbons. Clint himself had been wearing his best jeans and a plaid button-down shirt under his threadbare jacket; it was hot in the church, but he didn’t want to take his coat off because his best jeans had been mended by Mr. Carson’s girlfriend, Frieda, and it showed, because she hadn’t had exactly the right colour thread. Madame told him once God didn’t care if he had nice clothes as long as he showed up, but Clint thought other people cared, even if God didn’t. 

Just like Madame Zoltar, Owain shooed him into a pew ahead of him, and Clint found himself seated next to a boy of perhaps eight or nine, who looked solemnly determined to stay awake, though Clint could see his eyes drooping. He clung to the hand of the young woman next to him, who looked tired and just barely old enough to be the boy’s mother. She met Clint’s eyes briefly, and he smiled at her. She smiled back, but bent to whisper to the child, who shifted over to make more room for Clint and Owain.

Clint tried to pay attention to the service, which was about the need for charity all year, not just at Christmastime, but the echoes of memories were distracting. Clint was mildly amused at Owain’s devout attention to the Mass, given that he’d assassinated a European drug lord not twelve hours earlier, but he supposed that was between Owain and God; and God knew, Clint himself hadn’t come in here tonight with clean hands. He thought Owain was going to get up to receive Communion, but that was a step too far even for Clint, and he tugged the Gryphon down by his sleeve, shifting to allow the woman and the child to slip out. He hoped they couldn’t smell the scotch on his breath.

“Just relax, old man, we don’t want any lightning strikes in here tonight,” he murmured. The Gryphon smiled ironically at him.

“Ah, lad, I knew you were a true believer,” he replied, patting Clint’s hand. Clint retaliated with an elbow in his ribs, and tried to ignore Owain’s chuckle.

Each of them put money in the collection as it came around, and when the service was done, under cover of lighting a candle in the sanctuary, Owain stuffed his bundle of cash into the donation box for the church’s food drive. Holy Cross had a well-established history of feeding and clothing the poor of some of New York’s most impoverished neighbourhoods, and Clint approved of Owain’s choice – he only wished the money didn’t require quite so much stuffing. It took both of them to cram in the last few thousand Euros, and by the time they’d done, and were making their way out the door, Clint saw they’d attracted the attention of the priest, who was heading for the sanctuary – no doubt to ensure they hadn’t actually robbed the donation box. Clint approved of that, too; he thought it would be a very good idea if that box was put safely away tonight. 

They didn’t linger in front of the church, though, because if the priest did happen to open his donation box, he might be curious about the source of all the bounty, so they hurried around the corner and started strolling back in the general direction of the tower.

“Well, I’m feeling a bit peckish, young Clinton,” Owain said, looking around. “All this Christian charity does work up an appetite. “

“I could eat,” Clint agreed, looking around. “There’s a deli in the next block; you want some pastrami?”

“It seems odd somehow to have Jewish food after midnight Mass,” Owain sighed.

“Well, the Irish pubs are closed, so it’s pastrami or I can make you an omelette.” 

“Pastrami it is,” Owain agreed, and they headed for the deli.

 

Abner’s Neighbourhood Delicatessen was a nondescript sort of place, a narrow storefront that opened up into a mid-sized dining area with ten or twelve tables on a checkered linoleum floor. The front was divided from the back by a counter and display cabinets featuring a variety of smoked meats and fish, as well as bowls of salad, assorted breads and buns, and a cooler filled with drinks. None of that was what caught their eye as they entered however: both paused in the doorway, trying not to stare at the lean, balding, fiftyish man behind the counter, taking money from an elderly couple just paying their bill. Under cover of stamping the snow off his shoes, Owain murmured, “Isn’t that Archangel?”

“Yup,” Clint replied, stamping slush off his own shoes and looking up through his lashes at Ari Levner, high-level Mossad operative, code-named Archangel. He regretted that he’d left his Beretta at the Tower, though he couldn’t think of anything Mossad was on at the moment that would clash with SHIELD. “You think he’s working?”

“We’ll see,” murmured Owain softly, striding in as if he owned the place. “Good evening to you, sir,” he said genially. “Are you still open? The lad and I are looking for a bit of supper.”

Levner looked from one to the other, then smiled brightly and waved them to a table. Clint took the one indicated, noting it had the best sightlines in the room. So, probably not working against them, at least.

“If you’re hungry, we’re open,” Levner said expansively. “Can I get you some coffee?” Without waiting for an answer, he came over with two mugs and a pot. Under cover of pouring, he murmured, “Are you on the job?”

“No; you?” Clint replied, warming his hands around the thick china mug. Levner paused, the hand not holding the coffee-pot resting on his hip. 

“No. Well, I’m working here,” he added, gesturing vaguely at the deli. They all looked at one another for a moment, then Levner drew up a chair and sat. “Gryphon, Hawkeye,” he said in greeting. “It’s been a long time.”

“Longer than I thought, if you’re waiting tables,” Clint said. “What, are you retired?”

“A man can’t retire?” Levner demanded irritably. At Hawkeye’s raised eyebrows, he shrugged. “This was my wife’s uncle’s place. She wants me to scale back.” He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Women. What can you do?”

“Ah, very true,” Owain said sadly. “But we sing in our chains like the sea,” he added. Clint rolled his eyes at Levner.

“That was that other drunken Welshman,” he pointed out. “So, Ari, are you here for good, now?”

“More or less,” he replied. “I’m still taking a little contract work from time to time, but Miriam wants me to keep it to a minimum.” He paused, looked at Owain. “I heard that Maggie passed,” he said quietly. “She was a good woman. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Owain sighed and smiled sadly over the rim of his cup. 

“We’ll not see her like again,” he agreed. Clint raised his cup, remembering Owain’s wife and her warm, brown eyes.

“To Maggie, who could warm a cold traveler with just a smile,” he said. The others raised their cups and chorused, “To Maggie.” 

“She made the best hunter’s stew I’ve ever tasted,” Ari commented. “And she could shoot the eye out of a gnat at fifty yards.”

“I have the recipe for Maggie’s hunter’s stew,” Clint commented, only a little smugly. Ari stared at him incredulously.

“Ah, she had a soft spot for young Clinton, had Maggie,” Owain smiled. He patted Clint’s hand fondly. “You’ll make that for us one evening, lad, with some nice biscuits,” he informed Clint. “We’ll gather up Nick and that Jasper fellow and Ari, and we’ll play a bit of poker after dinner.”

“Mmm, great,” Clint replied, pasting on a smile and reflecting on the prospect of two world-class professional killers – three, counting himself – Nick Fury and SHIELD’s most inveterate practical joker all drinking copiously and cheating at seven-card stud in his living-room. Where he could be right now, he thought wistfully, curled up around the dregs of his Edradour and reading Conan Doyle. “That sounds like fun.”

Ari shrugged. 

“A little poker, a little freelance work, a little pastrami – it’s a living.” He looked at Clint with narrowed eyes. “Black Widow still active?” he asked. 

Much to his chagrin, Clint felt the tips of his ears warming as Owain gave him the side-eye. 

“Yeah, she’s still active,” he replied. “But you don’t want to play poker with her.”

“I’m not sure I want to play poker with this one, either,” Ari commented, nodding at Owain. “You want to order? The pastrami’s good.”

The pastrami certainly smelled good, but just as Ari set down the three plates and took his seat at the table, the front door burst open, and a young man burst in. He wore jeans and a matted shearling jacket, a black knitted cap, and a scarf over his nose and mouth. In his gloved hands, he held a handgun, which weaved disturbingly from one to the other of the seated trio.

“O-o-open the r-register,” he quavered in a near-falsetto. “This is a holdup!”

Clint looked reproachfully at Owain, who made a ‘who-me?’ face.

“Seriously?” he demanded of the Universe, thinking of his Edradour and his dog, both sleeping at the hearthside. 

“Yeah, fuckin’ seriously,” sneered the kid, the mouth of the pistol focusing on Clint. “C’mon, old man, get it open.”

Clint smiled sardonically at Ari.

“Dinner _and_ a show,” he said. “You should charge extra.”

Owain shook his head sadly. 

“This is what I keep saying,” he said to Clint and Ari, who took a bite of his pastrami sandwich. “Young people today just have no respect for their elders, no decent standards.”

Ari nodded, chewing and swallowing, and pushed back his chair, dusting crumbs off his shirtfront as he rose. 

“You’re right, you know,” he said to Owain, taking a step toward the counter. “When I was this one’s age, I would have had my ass kicked for leaving the house with a pistol in this condition.” As he brushed by the kid, his hand whipped out and he neatly levered the gun out of the young man’s grip, leaving the kid gasping and cradling a badly bruised hand. “Look at this – it’s filthy, and this little _momzer_ put the action together wrong.” He handed the pistol to Owain and gave the kid a swat across the back of the head as he resumed his seat. “It’s _farcockt_. Like your head,” he added with a glare at the kid, whose scarf had slipped down to reveal a pasty and acne-scarred face. 

“Oh, yeah?” demanded the kid, fury having apparently overcome his nervousness. “How about this, then, old man?” He drew a knife from the pocket of his jacket and brandished it menacingly.

Clint, Owain and Ari exchanged a speaking glance before all three erupted in hysterical laughter. Caught somewhere between bewilderment and indignation, the kid glared from one to the other. Clint finally regained control of himself, wiping tears of mirth with his napkin and drawing one of his own knives from an arm sheath, setting it down on the table next to his plate with a deep, metallic _clack_. The seven-inch blade gleamed a rich, charcoal blue-grey in the harsh overhead light. The kid stared at it, transfixed, the hand that held his own -- much, much smaller -- blade gradually drooping toward the floor. 

“Oh, fuck, that was worth the whole thing, the socks and the walk and the snow and everything,” Clint wheezed to Owain. “I haven’t had a laugh like that in ages.” He shook his head at the kid, wiping his eyes again. “Kid, you need to find another line of work, ‘cause you’re _shit_ at this.”

“Yeah? Well, fuck you – just because the gun doesn’t work –“

Owain sighed and laid a finger aside his nose. 

“Ah, boy, it’s a poor labourer who blames his tools,” he told the kid. “It’s these little setbacks that should teach us to improvise.” He shook his head. “A young fellow in a trade like yours must learn to think on his feet, adjust to changing circumstances.” He sighed again. “It’s a grave disappointment, it is that.”

Ari, meanwhile, had been efficiently stripping and reassembling the gun. He picked it up now, pointed it at the floor at the kid’s feet, and fired neatly into the linoleum. The kid leapt back with a yelp and looked like he was about to wet his pants.

“The gun works fine,” Ari said calmly. “All that’s wrong with it is an idiot put it together. And where did you get this ammo, from the Six Day War? Spend a dollar, buy some decent bullets. You’ll blow your hand off.” The kid put out his hand to take the weapon back, but Ari gave him a very pointed stare, and he dropped his hand, abashed. 

“Go home, kid, before something worse happens,” Clint advised, working hard to control the laughter that kept trying to bubble up again. The kid looked affronted, like he couldn’t imagine anything worse happening, but the problem was, Clint could, and he had to look away or the hysterics would have been back with a vengeance.

“Well, go on, then, lad,” Owain said, making a shooing motion with his hands. The kid, sulky now, started backing away. Ari picked up his sandwich again.

“Hey, little _pisher_ ,” he said. “If you want a real job, come back day after tomorrow. We need a new dishwasher.” The kid spared him one glance, then vanished through the front door again. In his wake, there was a brief silence, then another gale of hysterical laughter all around.

“You missed your chance to recruit that one,” Owain said to Clint, taking a vast bite of his sandwich. 

“Fuck, we’re not that desperate,” Clint replied, moving his pickle possessively out of Owain’s reach. “Anyway, what would his code-name be? The Chipmunk?”

“I shot my floor,” Ari said sadly, contemplating the scar in the linoleum. “Miriam is going to be pissed.”

 

When they rose to leave, 4:00 was ringing down on Manhattan from a handful of clocktowers, the chimes muffled by the blanket of white that had fallen in the streets. Clint took Owain’s elbow surreptitiously; it wouldn’t do to have the old man breaking a hip on Christmas morning.

“I’m glad you came in,” Ari admitted, turning the ‘closed’ sign outward. “This retirement thing – I’m not so sure. Anyway, don’t be strangers.”

“Love to Miriam,” Owain said as they set off through the snow. When they were a block away, he smiled at Clint. “Well, that was a surprise, young Clinton,” he said. “Who’d have foreseen the Archangel running a deli in Manhattan?”

“Last I heard, he was in Tel Aviv, “ Clint agreed. “Good pastrami, though.”

“He’s a man of many talents,” Owain smiled. “He’s a pretty hand with a knife, is Archangel.” He yawned widely as they approached the base of the Tower. “I’ll not come up, lad; my bed is calling.”

Clint looked at the old man with his long grey hair and his grizzled beard, snow sparkling on his coat.

“You okay to get home?” he asked, oddly reluctant to leave him standing in the street. “I can get the car out.”

“I’ll do very well, young Clinton,” smiled the Gryphon. “Take yourself upstairs, and give the Princess a pat from the old man.”

Clint pressed the palm sensor and opened the door, pausing before he entered. “Try and behave yourself, okay? I’ll see you Tuesday, maybe.” He watched as Owain turned to go, then impulsively called out. “Owain?”

The Gryphon turned back, head tilted curiously. Clint swallowed in a suddenly-tight throat.

“Was I that young? When I met you?”

Owain smiled affectionately at him.

“No, lad,” he said, “you were never that young.” His smile broadened into a grin. “And you were never that disrespectful, or the old man would have paddled your heathen American arse for you.” He tucked his hands into his overcoat pockets. “Merry Christmas, young Clinton,” he said. 

“Merry Christmas, Owain.” Clint paused. “Thanks for taking me to Mass.”

Owain smiled and waved, the laugh-lines around his eyes crinkling as he strode away toward the subway station. Clint stood and watched the fifth-deadliest man he’d ever met disappear around a corner as snowflakes started drifting down again. He hoped the old man would make it home all right. He didn’t want to have to go alone to midnight Mass next year.

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same universe as Tea with the Gryphon and The Princess and the Huntsman, but can be read as a stand-alone.
> 
> Momzer - literally, bastard  
> Farcockt - crazy, sullied, screwed-up  
> Pisher - someone of no importance


End file.
